What Big Brothers Do
by FlewandFlied
Summary: AU in which Sherlock and Mycroft are joined by their younger sister. These are snapshots from their childhood. Two Holmes siblings are bad enough, is three a crowd? -implied drug use-
1. Chapter 1

_***I do not own the characters Sherlock and Mycroft or anything recognisable to the public* **_

_**A/N:**_ _**THIS WAS ORIGINALLY A SERIES OF ONE SHOTS THAT I PLAN TO CONNECT TOGETHER. THE WHOLE THING IS PLANNED AND DRAFTED SO UPDATES SHOULD BE REGULAR. ENJOY!**_

At five years old, when Sherlock was told he was gaining a new sibling, there was only one person he could turn to for advice. The one who'd wiped away his tears, cleaned up his grazed knees. His only source of actually useful information. Mycroft.

A rainy Tuesday evening bought about the perfect opportunity to seek these words of wisdom. As usual, they had been left alone to fend for themselves. Well, they weren't completely alone - there were 8 members of staff downstairs, including a nanny (who Sherlock was adamant he didn't need). She had long since given up trying to entertain the young boy; any attempts at conversation would result in another awkward discovery about her love life.

"Mycroft?" called Sherlock, his voice only just audible over the sound of Brandenburg Concerto No.5. He wasn't one to announce his entrance, but the eldest Holmes brother had taken steps to avoid being disrupted as he studied. One of these was to move the door handle to shoulder height, so that germ infested small hands could not reach it, leaving Sherlock no choice but to ask permission to be let in. The music stopped.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Can...Can I come in?"

Mycroft did not yell back - the sound of footsteps approaching the doorway gave Sherlock the reply he was looking for. His brother appeared at the doorway, looking down at the scruffy haired child, who was clutching his teddy bear around the neck.

"Thank you Sherlock, I appreciate the fact that you did not attempt to ram the door down like last time."

Exasperated, the child replied, "Mycroft, that time was an emergency. You know that."

"I would barely call getting your eye patch stuck on your head an emergency..." Mycroft sighed, searching for some will to speak with an enthusiastic tone and trying desperately hard not to be condescending. He gestured to allow his visitor to enter. Needing no welcome, Sherlock tottered over to the perfectly made king-sized bed, scrambling on to the corner and manoeuvring himself so that he could face his brother again. Mycroft waited patiently for him to position himself whilst closing the door before initiating the conversation. As much as Mycroft knew he had to have time for his brother (his parents were often not around, at work in the case of his mother, at the local bar in the case of his father or too absorbed in their arguments to concern themselves in trivial matters) he needed some time to himself.

"What can I do for you?"

Sherlock set down his teddy bear next to him - the awkward silence filling the room did not seem to rush him - his reply would arrive in its own time. He shuffled back on the bed, allowing only his toes to peek over the edge and cleared his throat.

"You know how you're really good at your job?" Confused, the elder brother perched on the corner of the bed, twisting his body almost uncomfortably to face his troubled sibling.

"Job? What job?"

Sherlock tried again. He frowned, not used to having to explain himself to his brother. He was one of the few that could keep up.

"All those things you do, like making my pirate hat, getting biscuits from the pantry for me when the cook isn't looking, teaching me how to remember things like you do, not telling on me when I break stuff doing experiments..." Sherlock paused for thought. Before Mycroft could form a response, he continued: "You do it all the time and sometimes I don't even notice."

Mycroft smiled to himself "I'm glad to hear that you acknowledge those things, but really, it's just what big brothers do."

"That's the thing, I need to ask you how you do it. I'm worried that I won't be a good big brother."

Sherlock looked up, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. His eyes were wide and expectant.

"How about you let me do all of the worrying, little brother . After all, I've had 7 years of experience." The truth was that Mycroft was genuinely worried. When he first heard about the new addition (well, no one had actually told him - he had deduced it before they could) he seemed to be more concerned than his mother was. It seemed irresponsible to bring another human being in to the world when the ones that were already here were made out to be a burden.

Of course, he couldn't let Sherlock know of this thought ; his small brain would overload with various scenarios, ranging from just about manageable to downright terrifying. He couldn't deal with anymore 'nightmares'.

"I'm not like you Mycroft, I never know the right thing to say." confessed Sherlock.

Leaning over to put his arm around his brother, Mycroft smiled. "In my experience, dear brother, you've never been one to be stuck for words."

_**A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! Reviews, follows and favourites will always be appriciated :)**_

_**P.S The next chapters are longer and will be updated VERY soon**_


	2. Chapter 2

_***I don't own Sherlock***_

_**A/N: HOPE YOU ENJOY IT :)**_

10 years on, it was clear that Sherlock had had no trouble in taking up his new role as big brother. That wasn't to say there hadn't been bumps in the road, though - a few months after his conversation with Mycroft, the time came to name the baby. When Sherlock demanded she be called Bêlit (a pirate queen from 'Queen of the Black Coast) his mother thought it best if he had no further part in the naming process. She ignored his request and chose Faylinn which means 'Fairy Kingdom'. This in itself had put Sherlock off the idea of getting a sister after all - he wasn't even allowed to hold her - what was the point if he wasn't allowed to do the fun bits like choosing the name?

This all changed when grey blue eyes met his for the first time. The baby was in the arms of Mycroft, and hadn't seemed to happy about this fact, but when Sherlock appeared from over his shoulder, her rosy cheeks glowed and her eyes lit up. It was at that moment that the young pirate decided that Bêlit (Bee for short) would be his codename for the baby. She would unknowingly play a part in his nautical adventures, mostly taking the role of 'treasure'. Sherlock, along with his trusty sidekick Redbeard would guard the treasure chest (crib) from the wrath of the omnipotent evil 'nanny'. Sherlock didn't know for sure, but he could only assume that Mycroft had done the same for him.

A fifteen year old Sherlock continued with his position of protector, minus the fancy dress. He would return home from school every day to find his younger sibling waiting in the hallway with yet another maths problem to explain, deduction game to play or adventure to go on. It broke Sherlock's heart to tell her that he'd grown up now. He hated to turn in to Mycroft, but he couldn't help but look down on her childish behaviour. Besides, he had finally found something that he loved and that challenged him: solving mysteries. All of the Holmes children could read a person in a blink of an eye and Sherlock had decided that he would be the first to put the skill to use. All his preparation had lead up to the moment where he could use his knowledge on a real crime scene. So when the headmaster announced in assembly that someone had unfortunately been assaulted on the school premises in the middle of the night, Sherlock sprang in to action. He ran home to grab his pocket magnifying glass (a present from his grandparents) to be greeted by the cheeky grin of a ten year old hiding behind a leather-bound notebook.

"Look Sherlock! I solved it! The equation! Come sit here and I'll show you..." She patted the carpeted stair next to her. The girl had found her love in the form of numbers; they gave her a distraction from a world that was irritating and patronising for a ten year old doing degree level mathematics. It was a logical consistency when everyone else told her she would never fit in.

It took all of Sherlock's willpower to stop himself from just pushing past; adrenaline was pumping through his blood. It must have been the thrill of doing what he loved. He stooped down to be at eyelevel with the mathematician.

"Listen, I have to go out, but you can show me when I get back, ok?" The grin faded from her pale slim face, as if Sherlock had just reached over and wiped it off with his handkerchief.

"Well I've been waiti-" the lanky teenager stood and patted his sister on the shoulder, anticipating her protest.

"Sorry Bee! Gotta Run!" He strode part way up the staircase, taking two steps at a time as if it were the most natural thing in the world, just as a question formed on Faylinn's lips.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to school, I just need to get something first." Came the muffled reply. Sherlock had already bounded up the stairs and was now heading down the landing to his room. Hearing the same voice mumbling to itself accompanied by rummaging of bags, Faylinn took this opportunity to weigh up what was going on. Sherlock had put down his violin case, so he did not have concert practise, he was out of breath and his shirt wasn't tucked in, so he had ran home instead of being picked up by a car and judging by the state of his shoes, he had ran up the hill that was a shortcut through the woods. There was no doubting he was in a hurry. What could be so important?

He flew past her, lunging for the door.

"Wait!" she shouted. Sherlock whisked around to see his sibling fumbling around with her wellington boots, yanking on the left one whilst trying to balance on the other foot.

"What are you doing?" His brow furrowed in annoyance. He didn't have time for this.

"Coming with you, silly. You didn't think I was going to miss out on whatever this is, did you?"

"What? No, wait. _I_ am leaving. _You_..." he said, guiding his sister by her shoulders to the door of the sitting room "can stay and talk to mummy."

"But...she doesn't understand the basics of quadratic theory!" Of course all three siblings loved their mother dearly - in the eyes of Faylinn at least, she could do no wrong, but the fact of the matter was that she just couldn't keep up with the minds of her own children.

Easily able to counteract the small amount of bodyweight being thrown at him and getting more and more exasperated, Sherlock took a deep breath to ensure his actions remained gentle. He gestured for her to sit back on the stair. When she obliged, Sherlock knelt down again and began to tease the pink boot off with one hand. He looked at Faylinn and smiled.

"I have to go and do something really important at school, and I might be gone for a while. I'm really sorry that I don't have time to play with you but the evidence will only last so long" he said.

"Evidence? What evidence? Oh why can't I come?" she countered, folding her arms tight around her chest and sticking out her bottom lip as she did so. It reminded Sherlock of when she would plead Mycroft for the use of his office computer, bids which could sometimes last for hours.

"I can't explain now, but it's too dangerous for you. I said I'd always keep you safe and this is me doing just that. Now, promise me you won't follow. Why don't you go and show Mycroft your work?" Sherlock smiled at this suggestion. He rather enjoyed watching Mycroft pretend to listen to the young one's ramblings about various theroms and logarithms.

"Don't patronise me Sherlock, I'm not a child." With that, Sherlock sprang to his feet, kissing her forehead.

"That's my girl..."

**A/N: Reviews, follows and favourites are always appreciated (I will love you forever!) Thank you Potter4life01 for following!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This is my first longer fanfiction, so any feedback/reviews are hugely appreciated! **

**Just for reference (I'm not sure if I made this clear) I imagine Sherlock to be 5 years older than Faylinn, meaning Mycroft is 12 years older than her. So in this chapter, she is 13, Sherlock is 18 and Mycroft is 25. Thank you! I hope you enjoy...**

It didn't take long for Faylinn to realise that waiting for her brother was futile. She instead occupied her mind with algebra and her second love, the piano. Just as his sister moved on, Sherlock grew to forget the warm reception he used to receive everyday at 3:30. Such small details had to be deleted in order to make space for more important, more useful information that his cases demanded.

The youngest Holmes was now in secondary school, leaving behind the comfort of her small primary school and teachers that knew and (sort of) understood the Holmes family. She had been attending a girls only school for 2 years now . It had been hoped that this would provide a fresh start for her and mean that she did not have to remain in the shadow of her brothers. However, the fact that the family name had not yet been established there became more of a hindrance than a help; Faylinn had been used to dealing with bullies for her whole life, but now even her teachers looked at her as if she belonged in a circus. It didn't help matters that she had been moved on by two academic years in a bid to prevent boredom and was already taking her exams at the age of 13.

Music emerging from the piano grew to be more and more melancholic, adapting as it's player squeezed more and more emotion out of the keys. This subtlety was not noticed - it was only when it was spelt out for the brothers that they understood. One day Mycroft picked up a call on the landline, expecting the Minister of Defence to be on the other end of it. He was rather disappointed when all he received after his professional greeting was quiet laughter...

"Good Afternoon, you have reached the Holmes residence, this is Mycroft Holmes speaking." he said proudly.

After a giggle, the reply came: "You don't need to rehearse your script for me brother dear, you sound as if you are auditioning for a costume drama."

"Faylinn. Off the phone now. I'm waiting for an important call."

"No. Wait! You have to come and pick me up."

"Pick you up? Don't be absurd, I didn't get where I am now by skipping school." He could practically hear his caller rolling her eyes.

"No, you _need_ to come and get me." She took a deep breath, "I may have got myself excluded..."

"WHAT? FAYLINN ELANOR MARIE HOLMES, YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF!"

"Just please send a car!" she begged.

The sight of a black jaguar pulling up in the car park gave Faylinn a taste of hope. She could finally get out of this place. All hope, however was whisked away from her grasp when she opened the door to find Mycroft in the back seat, making his view known with the scowl he wore on his face.

Barely giving her the chance to climb in alongside him, Mycroft began the interrogation.

"Explain yourself, young lady." His tone remained calm, masking his annoyance. He had sacrificed his eleven o'clock pastry break to respond to his sister's plea, not to mention the rescheduling of his conference call with the German Chancellor.

"The teachers, they wouldn't listen and-" knowing that it would all come out eventually, the schoolgirl faced her brother for the first time. It was then that Mycroft saw it. The bruised jawbone, the dried blood in the corner of her lips. He reached out, his face still like iron, but his fingertips gentle and soft, to lift her chin.

"Who did this?" he demanded.

"That doesn't matter, what does matt-"

"WHO?" His voice raised for the second time in this short conversation. Reaching a stalemate, possibly two of the most stubborn people in the world sat staring each other out. One would crack eventually, it was just a matter of how long it would take. They could sit in this car all day.

As the car pulled up in front of the wide, looming front door of her home, Faylinn lunged for the door handle. She _could_ have sat there all day, quite happily. Whether she wanted to was a different matter. Her escape route was planned out to the inch, and as she bounded across the drive towards the house the gravel crunched beneath her black leather school shoes.

"Don't think I won't find out!" a voice came from the backseat. The escapee smiled. Of course he would find out who did it - she had never doubted this for a second. It was the why that she was more worried about.

Shimmying off her tie and kicking off her shoes, Faylinn dived in to the smallest bathroom in the house. It was very rarely used, except for the purposes that it had adopted when the gold latch had clicked in to place: a hiding place.

She sank down on to the floor, her back never loosing contact with the solid wood door. Cupping her head in her hands, she closed her eyes. It was not darkness that greeted her, however. The moment her eyelids made contact with her bottom lashes, she was taken back.

_"You're good at Maths, Holmes, it shouldn't take you long to calculate the amount of f*cks I give." They walked away laughing, evidently quite pleased with their leader's statement. Faylinn paused for thought. Was that really what passed as a clever remark nowadays? She collected herself, moving out of the cubicle and to the sink. The reflection scowling back at her was not a pretty one. The messy hair, the red eyes, accompanied by all of their baggage. Not sleeping for over fifty hours did take its toll on a person - her pale skin, which usually gave her the appearance of a china doll, looked sickly and drained. She fixed the grip holding back her fringe as the bell rang. _

_"Well, well, well it was nice of you to join us Miss Holmes. Please get a sheet from the front desk and sit down." sighed Mr Johnson, her biology teacher. She had walked in just to be greeted by thirty separate displeased expressions, so did not bother to respond. Besides, she had promised her mother that she would restrain herself from any outbursts. The table at the back of the room was occupied by her 'partner', whose name was Alex. From behind a mask of three inch thick make up, she smiled._

_"I already got you one, don't worry." Alex called. Surprised, the late comer slid on to a lab stool and looked at the empty half of her desk expectantly. A slither of paper floated downwards to meet with the plastic table top._

_"I filled it in for you, I hope you don't mind..." This time, the girl relented and let her 'good girl' act slip for just a second as a smirk fidgeted on the corners of her lips._

_The title read INHERITED TRAITS IN YOUR FAMILY. Underneath this was a list of words, written in the unruly scrawl of her classmate. Freaks, weirdos and psychopaths were just some of the insults on offer. She snapped. Hurting her was one thing. That could be dealt with. But insulting her family? The only friends she'd ever known? That was a bridge too far. _

_Throwing the evidence on to the desk of the Mr Johnson, she walked out of the door, wishing she'd have made more of a scene (the conversation and the fact that the science teacher was too busy flirting with a technician had lead to a subdued exit). Her chance to right this wrong came when Alex and her two friends stalked her in to the corridor, gleefully winding up their Jack-in-a Box until BANG. _

_"RIGHT." she screamed "JUST TELL ME TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME!" Well, that was the promise to Mummy out of the window. May as well role with it now. "JUDGE ME ALL YOU WANT, MY BIG REACTION IS HERE, IT HAS ARRIVED. RELISH IT, FILM IT, DO WHATEVER YOU WISH." She punched the wall, again regretting that her fist had not finished the deed and connected with Alex's nose instead. At this point, the antics in the corridor had drawn some attention, and heads were peeping out of classroom doors. _

_"DID YOU NOT HEAR ME? DO YOUR WORST!" she roared, beckoning he huddle of girls to play along. They all stared out her, mostly out of shock, but in retrospect Faylinn realised that they were probably sizing up their opponent. The youngest Holmes scrunched her eyes, expecting a usual slap or kick or yank of her black locks. They did not arrive. Feeling adrenaline pumping through her blood, making her heart race, she launched herself forward. If no one was going to start this, then she would have to. Her brothers always had been an admirer of the phrase 'if you want something doing then do it yourself'._

_An elbow to the stomach was all it took. The first shot in the dark. Standing up for herself felt alien, but good. For few seconds, the only thing she could see was her own hair in front of her eyes. This didn't hold her back though, she wriggled and clawed and screamed. Unfortunately, all of those things did not protect her from the crippling blow to the side of the face she received next. Nonetheless, they continued as she was dragged away by two members of staff... Not wanting to give them the satisfaction of having the last word, she screamed over her shoulder: "Weirdoes has an e in it. If you're going to insult me do it properly!" _

A sound coming from the door handle above her head rattled her back to reality.

"Bee?"


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: I do not own Sherlock or Mycroft *sobs* Sorry I missed posting a chapter yesterday! **_

"Don't make me pick the lock!"

Faylinn knew that this was a distinct possibility; Sherlock had been known to break in to various different places with nothing but a credit card in five seconds flat. However, she knew that her brother would have more reason to suspect her if she continued to hide. Plus, being alone with her thoughts hadn't gone well so far. Those memories had dug up a type of anger that Faylinn had never discovered before, so much so that she had subconsciously screwed her hands in to fists. Her knuckles became whiter and whiter.

Pushing up from the tiled floor, she took a moment to compose herself. For a split second, she contemplated lying, then almost immediately decided against it. It was Sherlock that had given her a lecture on the 'Art of Deception' in the first place. To test the theories on the master himself would surely be insulting to his intelligence.

His fist hit the door, signalling his impatience.

"Ok, ok." She clicked the lock, swinging the door open. There, almost a foot taller and peering down on her from behind scruffy black locks, was a concerned looking Sherlock. The younger sibling was about to protest and make excuses when she was pulled in to the itchy black fabric of her brothers coat.

"What?" came the muffled response from inside the envelope of Sherlock's arms. It felt right. It felt like home, but nonetheless this response was surprising.

"It's called a hug, you're meant to do it when people are sad, apparently" he pushed her back to reveal a cheeky smile on his face. In response, Faylinn rolled her eyes, relieved that the inevitable yelling had not arrived yet.

Having decided that the doorway to a bathroom is not the best place for a conversation, it was suggested that they move to the back sitting room. On the way to their destination, neither of the siblings spoke. For the eldest, it was because he was distracted by the marks on the face of the girl walking beside him - the walk allowed him to deduce that she had been hurt by 3 people, all of which were a similar height, but considerably heavier in terms of bodyweight. After studying her movements, he was slightly reassured that the rest of her body was not injured.

The place was bright, courtesy of the tall arched windows that delivered sunlight in to every corner of the wide room. Two armchairs seemed like an obvious place for this encounter, but Sherlock motioned towards the sofa, allowing Faylinn to take a seat. It was Sherlock that spoke first:

"Before you try and hide it any longer, I know what happened. And I don't just mean how your face got beaten in, I mean _everything."_

This admission sent her brain in to overdrive: did her really mean everything? Had she been that transparent? Her only obvious outward response was a gulp - it felt as if there was a lump in her throat trying to climb back up after she had forced it down. Her brother was about to speak again and she immediately tensed her shoulders. _Here it comes._

To her surprise, the face that looked down on her was not full of rage; Sherlock's eyes seemed pitiful, perturbed, even. If anything, this was more concerning, as this meant it really had all been uncovered. She didn't want to be a martyr, but at the same time she didn't want to upset her family - they were all so protective of her. The problems she encountered would become theirs, and they all had enough on their plate. He crouched in front of her.

"It's ok, no matter what happened, it can be sorted." Sherlock placed his hand on the knee of his sister, hoping to portray how he really felt with this one gesture. There was no way he was going to allow his sister to go through what he did at that age. Managing to repress his own memories, he concentrated on the problem before him, who at that very moment broke in front of his eyes. Her face crumpled, but she restrained tears. That was the Holmes way to do things.

"It's been happening since the first week there." she whispered.

Sherlock nodded, they were finally getting somewhere. The statement, which was said with a sense of shame, surprised him; he had suspected that this wasn't a one off, but he had no idea that it had happened for this long.

"Today it was the worst. I finally snapped, hence my early departure. Th-They've always said _things_, bad things... but today was different. I had to give them the satisfaction of a response, otherwise they would've just kept poking me."

Sherlock stood up. "What kind of things?" he asked, with narrowed eyes.

Now came the tricky part. It was hard to know when to draw the line: should she tell him everything, or were some things best left unsaid?

"Just stuff..."

"Have you told anyone? Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock interrogated. He was almost offended that she had not confided in him (he of course did not know Faylinn's reason for not doing so). She shook her head in response.

"No. The teachers must have known though. It went on underneath their noses, in fact, I think they enjoyed having front row seats."

It was then that a crumpled paper fell from the top pocket of her blazer. It had been unfolded, but it was clear that it had originally been a paper aeroplane. Sherlock lunged for it, grabbing it and flattening it out in his agile hands.

It contained one word 'WEIRDO'. This was quite mild for Faylinn, but Sherlock visibly shuddered at the sight of it. With it, it bought back visions of being stood in front of the class, having the word chanted at him until he ran out of the room.

Taking a deep breath, he pocketed the evidence and turned to his other mission - cheering up his sister. Plotting to stop the source of the unhappiness would happen in the quiet of his bedroom. His fingertips danced over tattered old boxes until he found what he was looking for: OPERATION. Then, he picked up the tie that was over the arm of the sofa and whipped it through the air, intending to use it as a blindfold (in the Holmes household, games had to be upgraded to remain interesting).

"I think it's time for some healthy competition, don't you?" he grinned.

After being tucked in by Sherlock, Faylinn lay awake in bed, running over the day's events. It was surprising just how easily her punishment was over looked. This thought made her smile in to the darkness; today had made her even prouder than usual to be a Holmes. She was grateful that Sherlock saw what was actually important in the situation, and not judged her according to those moments when the world egged her on, even if that did mean spilling out two years worth of secrets.

Unable to drift away from consciousness, she decided to amble downstairs for a midnight snack. Her dressing gown kept in all the warmth as she descended the main staircase, humming the tune Sherlock had played on the violin after the second conversation about her school life.

She turned the corner from the hall and in to the kitchen, when she saw a puddle of red wine. Curious, she crossed the room to see past the marble topped kitchen cupboards. That was when she saw it. Not it, her.

_**A/N: Thank you to the following people for taking the time to favourite/follow, you are the best! kie1993, The Lost Paladin, Queensusie, Readergirl99, microsophie. **_

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	5. Chapter 5

Her mother. The woman that had bought her in to the world alone. The woman that had been away most weeks but somehow always there. Always.

Faylinn slid to her knees and sat next to her, shaking as she reached out to grab the pale porcelain hand. Her hands slotted around her mothers, as they had done since she was small, squeezing her palm tight as if to hold on to the life that had already draining from her. Forgetting to breathe, Faylinn let out a squeak as she tried to form the word 'Mummy' on her lips. She shook the now sheet white arm that had once rocked her to sleep at night, praying for some kind of response. She had never been religious, but was it too much to ask for a miracle? Tears slid down, past the bruises framed by dainty cheekbones. Her bare legs were soaked in the spilled alcohol, but this fact was ignored. She was numb. The young girl sat frozen in place; she felt pathetic, helpless, needy so did nothing but felt her mother's hand in hers for a minute. It was the only thing stopping the room from spinning.

She finally managed to snap out of her trance, but her grip on to her mum's fingers never faltered. Not daring to move, she sat staring intently at the eyes she would recognise from a million miles away. There was no movement, no usual warming smile within them.

"MYCROFT! SHERLOCK!"

After this high pitched alarm, there was the sound of movement from beyond the lofty, baronial ceiling as the two men sprang in to action. Sherlock, who had never actually attempted to go to sleep, was first to dash down the stairs. Mycroft closely followed after the screech had dug him out of a deep slumber.

They were not, however, the first to arrive; a burly security guard ran clumsily towards the source of the noise. His chubby fingers clutched the doorframe and as he swung around the corner, his face sunk. This reaction could not linger though, because the summoned brothers barged past him.

The initial frenzy halted as they skidded to a standstill and scanned the scene before them. It was Mycroft who reacted first this time; he slammed the door behind him to avoid any obtrusive eyes. Next, he reached down to his mother, placing two fingers on the back of her jaw, finding the pulse point with ease. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the vital sign he craved. He did nothing but brush his mothers cheek with his finger tips as he returned back to a standing position. Much like his sister below him, he did not speak. Instead, he looked straight ahead as emotion flickered over his features. After preaching the phrase 'caring is not an advantage' for some time, he fought to push down the urge to scream.

The third Holmes immediately explored the room within his mind's eye. He took it all in: the smashed wine glass, the red liquid collecting in a puddle around it, the fragile frame of the only woman he had ever looked up to. Almost immediately, he caught sight of the empty bottle on the counter top, which had once contained fluoxetine pills.

Knowing Mycroft had eventually spotted the same thing, the two exchanged glances. Had she done this to _herself_? Repressing those thoughts, Sherlock moved around to see the body. He was not a stranger to these sights - he had seen plenty of crime scenes in his time - but this was different. Very different. The body in front of him was not a faceless victim, but someone he loved.

Seemingly in denial, he fell to his knees and pressed his ear against her chest. No movement, no sound of a heartbeat arrived. Not one to be easily defeated, he started to press the middle of her stomach with flat crossed palms, as if he somehow believed he could pump life back in to her.

Having been pushed out of the way by Sherlock, Faylinn shuffled away from him and her head sunk in to her hands. Just a moment ago she had been lying in bed admiring her mother, thinking about the way her words could make everything ok. Now it was all gone.

This same realisation seemed to hit Sherlock like a brick wall too, as he finally dropped his hands to his side in defeat. He sat for a minute, joining his brother and sister in their silent reflection, before rising to his feet and turning away from the haunting sight. He proceeded to run his hand through his thick black curls. _Why hadn't it been him that found her_? Every neuron in his brain was in overdrive; he had to escape, so he did just that. The door shuddered as Sherlock slammed it behind him.

Faylinn, who had looked up to search for an explanation for the departure, turned to Mycroft for guidance and reassurance. He _always_ had a plan and it was assumed that this time would be no exception. However, when he was given a questioning look from his sister, all he was able to do was mirror it.

Neither followed Sherlock. It was understood that he needed his moment. They _all _did. He had never been able to cope with emotional situations, probably due to lack of practise handling sadness or sentiment. This was something it was impossible to run from though; how can you escape the hole that a death engulfs you in? How could he be expected to behave in a rational manor when even Mycroft struggled to keep himself together?

Speaking of the eldest brother, visible tears had now formed in the corner of his eye. The pools of blue that were always curious yet knowing started to flood, as Mycroft flicked away water droplets with the pad of his thumb. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Faylinn and walked over to her. His hand shook slightly as he held it out for support. This was no time to refuse help and be an 'independent adult' to make a point, so she took it and allowed him to haul her to her feet. After steadying her, he spoke for the first time since arriving in the room.

"I will go to call the doctor and organise everything" he said, in a hushed tone. Still unable to form a sufficient response, Faylinn simply nodded. It was getting harder and harder not to point out the tear making his eyes glint. In fact, it was getting harder and harder to stay upright.

Fulfilling his words, Mr Holmes headed towards the door that lead to an office used by staff (unused at this time of night). Before he left, he allowed himself a look at his mum's face - at that moment, childhood memories flooded his brain. Everyone seemed to forget that there had been seven years when it was just him, mummy and daddy. It was after Sherlock's arrival that things slowly crumbled. A surge of practicalities hit him, snapping him out of his reminiscent thoughts and forcing his legs to move in the direction of the nearest telephone.

"Faylinn?" he said her name whilst turning to face her, surprising the girl. Again, she relied on her facial expression to respond for her.

"It'll be alright" This simple sentence was used more to comfort himself than to help her, but it seemed to have an effect on her all the same. She lifted her head and nodded in recognition.

Mycroft walked out. He immediately questioned his previous statement. He had told many lies in his time, made many empty promises and spoken with conviction about subjects he had no belief in what so ever, but those three words made him more doubtful than he had ever been before.

_**A/N: I hope that was ok, I rewrote it too many times! Thank you to eforrest213 and Satine Gold for favouriting/following and to Caroline for reviewing - I am glad you like it! As always, feedback is hugely appreciated :)**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:**_** *I do not own Sherlock or anything related to it, other than the character of Faylinn* I don't feel that this chapter is particularly up to scratch, but it has been a real bug bear of mine, as I know where I am going next but couldn't make a stepping stone to get there. Bit of a crappy metaphor for you there. ENJOY!**

Fifteen flames danced and wobbled as a cake was deposited on the coffee table. It was decorated with a dark, rich chocolate icing and within the fiery ring, it boasted the words 'Happy Birthday Faylinn' in perfect cursive writing.

For a moment, the teenager sat and stared in to the orange glow. She took a deep breath before the sitting room plunged in to darkness and smoke wafted up to form clouds above the heads of the three people in the room: the birthday girl, her eldest brother and their housekeeper. The latter clapped her hands with pleasure as she reached over to flick on the floor lamp. With the light now returned, the two siblings exchanged glances. Both expressions were not exactly what would be expected of a birthday celebration ; one was incredibly bored, whilst the other felt sorry for herself. Neither wanted to be there.

The older woman, who had returned back to her perch on the arm of the sofa, held three small plates with a knife and was now wearing an unbearable grin on her face. As soon as she looked up to see Faylinn's reaction, the girl altered and allowed the corner of her lips to be tugged up in to a small smile. Not allowing her ice blue eyes give her away, she tried her hardest to let them light up to mirror Mrs Scott's look.

"You really shouldn't have, Mrs S!"

"Don't be silly dear. No one should have a birthday without cake! Anyway, you deserve it!" she replied, handing Faylinn a delicate china plate balancing a huge slab of sponge on it. Then she turned to the man in the room, who was currently settled in to an armchair and tracing the top of his scotch glass with his index finger.

"Cake, Mycroft?" He shot daggers at Mrs Scott, clearly not impressed by her offer or the fact that she had interrupted his deep thought (his new promotion had bought with it a whirlwind of problems, including how to manage Korea's annual tantrum). His frown eventually softened and he simply waved away the bumbling maid.

In well practised Czech, a slightly horrified Faylinn asked her brother, "Mohla bys aspoň předstírat, že chcete být tady?!" _**['Could you at least pretend to want to be here?']**_

_**"**_Jsem politik a bohužel není herec" was shot back. _**['I am a politician and unfortunately not an actor']**_

The older woman looked surprised - not because of the foreign conversation that had been initiated in front of her (this was more than normal) but because of Mycroft's refusal of her famous chocolate fudge cake. Worried that her lovable cake-maker would become disheartened, Faylinn took a bite of cake, allowing the sticky frosting to cover her tongue and shock her taste buds in to life. Her body had craved this; Mycroft had stared her out at the dinner table for a few days now yet she had failed to fill her stomach. It was seemingly used to running on fresh air and tea.

Content that her surprise had been a hit, Mrs Scott picked up the tray again.

"I'll wrap it up for you. I'm sure Sherlock will want some when he gets back!" She then turned an scurried out of the room, skilfully balancing it on her arm as she closed the door behind her. The sound of humming from down the hall became more and more distant.

"He said he'd be here." the girls voice, usually confident and clear, was timid. Faylinn knew that Sherlock had 'gone off the rails' recently. It was hard not to know. His dilated pupils and red runny nose were all the evidence she needed. It had been a downhill slope since that night about eighteen months prior - Mycroft had set about being...well, Mycroft and making various phone calls and arrangements whilst Sherlock had disappeared, only to return late the next day. At 15, Faylinn was no longer a child and knew exactly what went on during those dark nights spent in London's back alleys. With both of them pre-occupied, it had taken hours for someone to realise that the wine stained girl needed someone to cry to.

It was just that he had made it clear that she was the exception - beyond the boundary - he was always a constant for her. It was his chest she had cried in to so many times when she was alone in the world and felt nothing but grief for her mother, it was his hand she squeezed so tightly at the funeral service and it was his voice that could scare the nightmares away. So why would he not turn up for her birthday?

It was incredibly clear that the brothers were no longer comfortable in each other's company, especially since Mycroft had emerged from his study with a bloody nose after a 'discussion'. But still when all they had was each other, it was assumed he would make an effort.

"It's about time you stopped taking his word as gospel, sister of mine" Mycroft did not look away from the fire as he said this. It was painful to villanize Sherlock when he saw just how much she loved him, but it had to be done. The problem was getting worse and it was only a matter of time before Sherlock overstepped the boundary he had set himself.

_3 days earlier_

The young man in his long, black coat, sat on a chair outside Mycroft's study, with his arms folded over his chest. The cheeky gleam in his eye still remained, despite the fact he could feel his brain wanting to crash and burn. He wanted so badly to hold on to the state of euphoria he had achieved. As footsteps approached the door he sat next to, Sherlock sat up a little straighter, like boy waiting outside the headmasters office knowing that the visit wouldn't be ending well.

Mycroft, wearing his usual three piece suit, stepped in to the corridor and turned on his heel to face his brother. He did not say anything, but instead simply looked directly in to his eyes as he shook his head slowly and disapprovingly. He has hoped that actions would speak louder than words. However, when Sherlock reacted by sighing and pushing past him in to his home office, he changed his approach. There would be a lot to answer for...

The door slammed, making the younger Holmes visibly flinch. Mycroft made a mental note of this - the agitation and headaches had clearly taken over, potentially making his job a lot harder. The rosewood desk in the centre of the room held stacks of paperwork, which towered over the accused who was slumped in a chair, awaiting a lecture. Before one could begin, a glass of water was slammed down in front of him.

"You should keep drinking that, you need to get the toxins out of your body. You will also take a hot shower when we are done. Until that time, you will sit and listen. This is by no means a debate or a negotiation ; I am going to speak, and you will not respond unless asked to." Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. It was surprising that this had not happened in the months before - he had been turning to illegal highs occasionally since he lost his mother, but in recent weeks they had become more and more frequent. Surprising even himself, he made no attempt to protest. This was going to happen at some point, no matter what he said or did.

"Sherlock, this has been hard for every single one of us. You do not need to tell me how much you want to get away, because believe me I would do anything to drop all of this and relax." His voice remained even and firm, despite his brain telling him just to erupt there and then. Taking a moment to commend his own self-restraint, he leaned backwards on his desk and continued.

"That is not, however, an excuse for this behaviour. For God's sake, I thought you were intelligent! Need I remind you of the health risks, or even of the way mummy spent her final night? Of all the things you've ever done, this insults me the most. It _insults _me, Sherlock. That you think so little of yourself or anyone else to turn to this, this nonsense. Especially after what we saw all those nights ago. You saw just how dangerous drugs could be."

With Mycroft's voice now raised, Sherlock was forced to take note of what he was saying. He'd never thought of it like that. He stared directly over Mycroft's shoulder as he remembered the first time he had spotted the pills on the worktop. There was very little room for emotion between them, but perhaps it had been insensitive.

"This will not go unnoticed any longer. I let it go the on the first occasions because I knew you needed to learn to cope - I can only regret that now." He sighed. This was the hardest part. "You were thoughtless, and as a result you will be taking a break."

Sherlock looked up. He opened his mouth to protest, and then paused once again. A what? A break?

Mycroft simply lifted his hand to stop any objection. "What that means, dear brother, is that you will be staying away from this house for a few weeks. I cannot allow you to be around long enough for your dirty _habits_ to affect our sister, and don't pretend that that isn't a possibility. I believe that teenage girls are very impressionable."

At this point, Sherlock stood up. Mycroft was not in charge of him anymore. He was almost 20 and that meant he could have legally done whatever he wanted 2 years ago. The two brothers were now face to face.

"Sherlock, you'll be away from London and all the temptation - I have arranged accommodation already. It will also ensure that Faylinn does not become all too aware of your antics. I have been charged with the responsibility of raising her and I intend to do it right. Keeping you apart will be a good thing."

The last sentence sparked Sherlock in to action, making his blood boil. His immediate reaction was to lift his fist, which was connected with Mycroft's face. The anger had taken over him, and as a result he could feel no remorse for his brother, who was cradling his nose in cupped hands.

"Don't you dare tell me what's good for me, especially when it involves not seeing her. I will always protect her, you know that." Sherlock spat. He grabbed his scarf, folding it around his neck with one swift motion. Before leaving, he took a second to look at a frame on the filing cabinet.

It contained a picture of Mycroft, Sherlock and Faylinn. The girl had bought one each for the two brothers last Christmas. Sherlock frowned. It had got harder and harder to love them in the past year.

**A/N: Thank you to everyone for favouriting/following! I would love to hear what you think about my writing!**


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock strode through the kitchen of the Holmes residence. Despite the fact he had been gone for days, no one questioned his presence (at least not to his face). The gossiping cleaners were too preoccupied with whispering to each other, commenting on not only his wobbly gait, but the fact he was wearing his wool scarf. It was, after all, 22°C outside. What they did not know is that it was a present from his mother: a reminder of home and the way it used to be. The one sentimental indulgence Sherlock allowed himself.

Upon arriving in front of the rosewood bookcase in the corner, which stood proudly from the floor to the ceiling, he reached for a specific volume with a thick red spine and delicate red text. This was not because of his intent to read this collection, but instead to reach his sister. As the spine of the book pulled down, all of the shelves made way to reveal a doorway just big enough for an average man to fit through.

Unfortunately, Sherlock had never been average, both mentally and physically. He instinctively ducked his head as he stepped from the stone floor to the spongy carpet. He had completed this manoeuvre thousands of time since his childhood, but the substantial amount of chemicals fogging his brain made it considerably less graceful.

The world he entered completely juxtaposed the one he had just left; the shadowy yellow light replaced the bright ones of the kitchen. There was not a wall space that wasn't covered in an extensive collection of novels. Something else had changed, though. Something much more subtle, but essential nonetheless . The young detective's ability to control his temper was left at the door, along with his dignity after ambling through the entrance.

Faylinn sat facing away from him, oblivious to his entrance. In this room, at this time, she had her guard down. For an anxious, lonely and pressured teenager, time alone was common but still loved; it felt good to be whisked away from the real world and to be entranced by the fiction at her fingertips. Her mind drifted aimlessly between the words on the page and thoughts about her upcoming application to university. She had inherited this place as a 'den' and claimed the comfiest armchair as her own - not bad, as hand-me-downs go.

The door shut behind the intruder. This was desirable, Sherlock thought. What was about to be said had no place in the minds of the staff.

"When I was small, mother read to me before bed, like what Mycroft did with you. She insisted that we take a break from pirate stories, so she read 'The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe'. I remember coming in here and spending hours searching for my own version of Narnia." as he spoke, his finger traced the dust on the shelf closest to him. The girl once again failed to react. An innocent bystander may assume that this was a result of being dissolved in her own world, but this had been a typical reaction for a while now ; there was a certain rift in the Holmes household that was not spoken about but loomed over its inhabitants nonetheless.

Sherlock continued, not fazed by the unenthusiastic audience. "That was around the time I was bought Redbeard. He was small, unnaturally skinny and had curly fluffy hair." he smiled, remembering the day that a puppy had been placed on his lap, with a red bow tied around his neck (this had earned him the very creative name of Red, which was changed after the young boy discovered his love for pirates).

"Mother told me that we were a perfect match, and that if I ever needed a friend, I would have him. The thing is the one time I needed him more than ever - really, really needed him - he was already gone. He could protect me from all the bullies in the world, except for one."

"I think that is what all of this has taught me. Death is the biggest bully of them all. It preys on the weak and once it decides that you are a target, it never fails to miss. My biggest regret is allowing my mother to surrender to it so soon. I was too wrapped up in my own battles to realise she needed help fighting her corner." His finger glided less and less delicately until he was pushing so hard that the shelf creaked, almost like it was squealing with pain.

He expected a reaction. He _wanted_ a reaction.

In reality, however, Faylinn continued to stare at the page in front of her. She was no longer reading, and had noted the emotion in her brothers soliloquy, but still did not dare to look him in the eye. For now, it was a safer bet to keep her eyes down.

As if to make a point, Sherlock stepped towards her, now suspended in the middle of the small, square room. Not to intimidate her, but to at least make her aware; if there was one thing he was no used to, it was being ignored.

His voice raised "It is not very often that I feel guilt, but when I do it hits me hard. What about you, Faylinn, do you have any regrets?"

Still no eye contact.

Without thinking, Sherlock grabbed the book from underneath her nose, throwing it to the floor. He tried again:

"Well, do you?" he spat, looking deep in to the pools of blue that were finally looking back at him. He searched them for a sign of recognition.

Despite giving in to Sherlock's demand for eye contact, Faylinn still did not reply. She took a deep breath to compose herself - at this point she was unsure how to react. _He doesn't know what he's saying. This would all be different if he wasn't so intoxicated. This isn't my Sherlock' _she reminded herself, in a bid to console her confused mind.

Visions of her father replaced these thoughts. How proud he would be, now that his youngest son was following in his footsteps. These outbursts were familiar to her, even if she had been very young when they last happened under this roof. Even the smell of alcohol on his breath was a perfect match. She wanted to throw up. She wasn't sure where this was going, but where ever it was, it didn't seem too desirable...

_**A/N: Sorry about the delays, I promise to try and get back to updating every day. Thank you so so so much for following/favouriting/reviewing, it means a lot!**_


	8. Chapter 8

A few more moments passed by, the only sound being Sherlock's heavy breathing as he paced backwards and forwards. His legs were the only parts of his body that were in motion - his shoulders were locked, like his fists which were curled around the fabric of his trousers. With each step, the silence grated at his dwindling patience, until finally non remained:

"ANSWER ME WHEN I AM TALKING TO YOU!" he yelled.

"You don't get it, do you? People tell me that you're intelligent, and god knows I agreed with them for a while, but you still haven't caught on... you could have saved her, Faylinn! You just let her lie there. You didn't do _anything. _You know what I think? I think you're a coward. She spent her whole life taking bullets for you but when it mattered, you couldn't take one in return!"

This admission hung in the air and Sherlock watched as every last scrap of it was absorbed in to his baby sister's brain. Her eyes became wider; it was now apparent that her voice was longer hiding out of spite, but it was scared to reveal itself. As she blinked back at him, the realisation hit Sherlock about what he had just said. That one look sobered him in seconds.

Partly due to anger, partly due to sheer overload, Sherlock's knees started to buckle underneath him. Falling back to the bookshelves behind him, he clutched at the rosewood to keep him vaguely upright.

Having heard the commotion from his study upstairs, Mycroft took off down the stairs. He had of course expected Sherlock to return in a state, after refusing his offer and escaping on to the streets of London for days, but it was assumed that any anger or resentment would be aimed at him, and certainly not at the fragile girl he had once vowed to protect. The eldest brother recognised that this storm had been brewing in his brother's brain for a while; the drugs and alcohol had clearly let it through the filter.

Without so much as thinking about it, Mycroft entered the secret cave. His entrance snapped the palpable silence. The eldest Holmes took in the scene before him, and immediately paced over to his sister. Whilst crossing the room, he looked his brother up and down, almost as if he was assessing his capacity. Arguments were frequent under this roof, but nothing quite like this - this was different.

The body next to him slid from her perch on the chair to the carpet below, landing in a heap. For the first time, Faylinn showed her emotion as a tear slid down her cheek. The rise and fall of her chest accelerated as her body caught up with what had happened. It was soon followed with gasps and a stream of droplets.

As for Sherlock, he was still frozen in place. He showed very little sorrow for what he had said, but as Mycroft surveyed him, fear and regret flickered over his face.

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done?" Mycroft took off his suit jacket, folding it carefully and placing it over the arm of the chair. This left him wearing just a light blue shirt with a darker, midnight blue tie that was pulled down from the collar. For once, he felt unsure of how to deal with a situation. As much as he hated the idea of sentiment, he knew it was more than called for here; it was his turn to be the 'good brother'.

He joined his sibling on the floor. Faylinn, who was initially shocked by the physical contact, eventually collapsed in to Mycroft's lap.

"I suggest you go and drink some tea, brother dear." he said, his eyebrow arched. Even this small gesture conveyed enough disapproval for a lifetime.

"But..."

"Just go, Sherlock."

"Mycroft but you have to..."

He was cradling her, letting his finger run through her soft black hair. Looking at the scene, it would seem that the politician was full of tenderness. However, the tone of his voice told another story...

"OUT!"

Sherlock knew that anymore arguing would dig a bigger hole for himself - besides, it would be a waste of precious energy, so he instead marched out. He made a point of letting his black shoes hit the floor with force and creating as much noise as possible as he clattered back in to the bright light. In doing this, all he achieved was making himself seem like he was six again. He had had is fair share of tantrums in the past - he knew how they worked.

Weeping became audible from somewhere within the bundle in Mycroft's arms. At this point, his shirt was clutched by a smaller shaking hand, keeping him close to her as an anchor. She wasn't just upset about the words that had been said. She was crying out the events of the last year or so.

"Shhhh..." Mycroft cooed as he started to rock gently in a bid for comfort.

The knot of limbs tightened; Faylinn simply wanted to disappear. Her brother sat with his head rested on top of hers, wondering what, if anything, could be done to untie it.

_**A/N: Sorry that this isn't very long! I didn't want to move on in the same chapter, so that will be tomorrow instead. I would LOVE LOVE LOVE to hear what you think, your feedback means a lot :)**_


	9. Chapter 9

The sun rose, illuminating the London skyline. At this time the streets of the capital are alive, but not in the fake plastic way that the tourists seem to revel in. This was how Sherlock remembered it; relatively empty yet still somehow thriving.

Filling his lungs with the London air, he strode down the street as traffic rushed by. Sherlock obviously knew how out of the ordinary he could be, but it was nice to be unnoticed by just about everyone. London is a big place: easy to get lost in. _Hidden in plain sight. _

He knew that the men in suits and ties with brief cases and sullen looks would arrive soon. He sat down on a low step, hidden from any prying eyes on the street. This alley was a common haunt for his new 'suppliers' - if he was lucky, one would agree would let him pay later that evening. Once you were on good terms with them, this was typically easy, but word was getting around about Sherlock coming from money (something that was hard to deny after being picked up in chauffeur driven cars). It made it considerably more difficult to drive down prices or ask for credit; people gave him 'that look' when he asked for change to use a vending machine.

Balancing on the balls of his feet with his knees sticking out in front of him, he looked back on the last hour or so. The fire inside him that had been smothered by the cold morning air was slowly rekindling, only this time it would not burn anyone but himself. It was getting harder and harder to stay mad at Faylinn now that the fog was dissolving. The finger of blame was slowly pointing towards himself. How could he snap like that?

"_It's not very often that I feel guilt, but when I do it hits me hard" _Yes, there it was. It had been a long time but nonetheless Sherlock greeted the sensation with a sense of recognition. It was all there: the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, the tape in his mind constantly on rewind.

He put his head in his hands, combing his black locks with his fingers. Not only did the repetitive motion keep his hands busy, but it calmed him - it took him back to his childhood, remembering how his father had ruffled his hair fondly. It wasn't exactly a regular occurrence, but by now, the feeling had planted itself in Sherlock's brain.

It was not very often he felt like this. Fragile. Alone. Stupid.

The nature of the room made Mycroft unaware that it was already morning. The books around him knew no time of day; they were there to take you away from the real world, not remind you of the confines of it.

He looked down to see his sister's tear stained face resting on his lap. She looked at peace, despite the contortion of her limbs. She had tried to tie herself around Mycroft, forgetting what had gone before and craving nothing but comfort. It had not exactly been a comfortable night, something which the creases on Mycroft's shirt would soon illustrate to his colleagues. He freed his stiff hand from beneath her shoulder and caught the face of his watch between his thumb and forefinger.

_5:47_

The young politician did a quick mental calculation, telling him the reason behind the fog clouding his brain; he had had no more than 3 hours sleep. Great. Even late nights mopping up messy policies in Downing Street allowed him more than that.

It had taken what seemed like an age for Faylinn to give in to sleep; she had wriggled and sobbed throughout the night even then. Mycroft, who had grown to be incredibly uncomfortable leaning against the chair, was determined to outlast her and ensure she got some rest. His initial plan had gone out of the window; he had hoped a hug and a pat on the back would suffice, but soon learnt otherwise. She had to know she wasn't alone in this. Mycroft had let her down in the past, but not this time. It was hard to recall the last time that they had been so close, but emotion and a sea of adrenaline had governed the events with little room for rational thought.

It was hard to admit to himself, but Mycroft had missed this. What he had not missed, however, was the arguments, the anxiety attacks, the sense of being 'on edge'. It was wrong to live in their own house like that.

Bullies, boys and even the events surrounding her father at a young age had not affected her like this. But then again, what can prepare you for effectively being accused of killing your own mother?

Mycroft got up slowly but carefully, leaving her behind with her long, thick black hair fanned out across the floor. The patterned armchair creaked as he returned to an upright position for the first time in a number of hours. Despite the fact no one would be on the receiving end of it, he frowned. He could almost hear Sherlock making some remark about his 'weight' or 'diet'.

He took his jacket from the arm of the chair, scooping it up and holding it in the crook of his arm. He could have remained in this suspended state for some time, but his work was calling. Before his departure, he paused to drape a soft blanket around Faylinn, remembering the times it was 'his turn' to tuck her in.

He would head upstairs to receive an important international conference call and needed tea to get him through it. World leaders could be such a drain sometimes. He left silently, striding out without looking back. Usually, it was easy to switch on his 'work brain' (it was very rarely off and even when it wasn't in use, it was on standby) to leave behind the squabbles between his siblings that he so very often got caught up in. This, however, was so much more than a squabble.

_**A/N: I hope you liked it! Apologies if there are any mistakes as I finished this whilst watching the Great British Bake Off! **_

_**I did have the rest planned out and drafted, but have changed my mind so it may take a bit longer (updates will still be regular though). Thank you for your patience and support, reviews are ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS appreciated. :) **_


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N: Once again, I must apologise that I have waited this long to upload, but if you saw the author's note that was here before then you will know why. I really hope you enjoy!**_

It soon became clear that no one would show. There was only one thing for it. If the business wasn't going to come to him, then Sherlock would find the business.

He sprung up from his squatting position, before brushing himself off with the side of his palm. Then he strode intently in to the river of black suits and stern faces. Turning left, he was forced to push his way up the pavement, like a salmon swimming upstream. He came up for air occasionally in search of a vacant cab. Sharp elbows left him on his toes as he danced on the balls of his feet to dodge the commuters that were determined not to diverge from their warpath.

Eventually tracking down the elusive cab, Sherlock instructed the cabbie in monotone before escaping back in to his own mind. He had to put a stop to this regret. He reminded himself that he had every right to voice his opinion; he had played with every syllable of his speech for days, not daring to say it, whilst the darkest part of his brain egged him on. _But then, was it his opinion? Or was it just the drugs talking? _It was getting harder and harder to distinguish between the two.

"Stop here." he mumbled, his hand already curled around the door handle. The intended destination was still a few streets away, but taking a cab directly there was basically helping the coppers put cuffs around his wrists.

The abandoned factory welcomed him like an old friend. Since no one was seen around the alley, they all had to be in what had turned in to a sort of head office. This logic proved to be correct, and as Sherlock proceeded to buy 'his usual', he felt at home.

Unable to cope with the prospect of actually _conversing_ with someone, Sherlock took himself off to a quiet spot, finally in possession of what he craved. This spot turned out to be at the bottom of a fire escape, over grown with weeds and forgotten. The painted black metal steps weren't the comfiest thing in the world, but that didn't matter - Sherlock was minutes away from escape.

He could be doing something sensible. He should be doing the right thing and begging for forgiveness, saying he didn't mean it and hoping he would be let back in. But this just felt right. So right.

It felt right the second time. And the third. And the fourth. His blood surged and he pushed his head back to savour the moment. Freedom. He smiled because he heard no sound, felt no pain.

He saw nothing but darkness. Darkness. Darkness.

* * *

_3 Days later_

Faylinn stared at one specific spec of peeled paint on the otherwise perfectly white ceiling above her. Subconsciously, her cracked, bitten fingernails clawed at the duck feather duvet beneath her. She clutched it, craving the softness.

The clinking of a china cup and saucer alerted her stomach to the fact it was empty, and after deeming that the corridor had been vacated, she pushed herself in to a sitting position. This gave her her first glance of herself in the mirror. It wasn't a pretty sight to say the least. Her crystal blue eyes were surrounded by pink (courtesy of a dangerous combination of tears and lack of sleep) and her old band t-shirt was stained. Shutting her eyes tight, she composed herself once more before getting up to cross the room.

The handle was higher than any other in the house, and a twelve year old Mycroft's D.I.Y skills had made it even harder to keep quiet. Grimacing at the click and squeak made by the lock, she looked down to see what had become a familiar sight over the past few days: a tea tray holding a teapot, a cup and saucer, a milk jug and a slice of freshly buttered toast.

She was well aware that this was her eldest brother's attempt at a) getting her to eat and b) louring her out of her bedroom, her chosen hiding place since waking up alone in the library. Ignoring the gesture, she stepped over her breakfast and headed down the corridor. She needed textbooks. If she was going to spend the rest of her days locked in her bedroom then they would be productive.

It was imperative not to tip off Mycroft that she had risen and in turn to avoid any awkward confrontations. Knowing the space like the back of her hand, Faylinn zigzagged from floorboard to floorboard, trying to avoid the creakiest of them. This was one of the few games she could always beat Sherlock at as a child. Well, that and Connect 4 (something which she used as a basis for her paper on probability at the age of 9).

Unfortunately, she couldn't make it all the way to the books, which were stashed under the coffee table in the lounge, without running in to Mrs Scott. Cursing inside, she put her acting lessons to use; a huge smile was plastered across her face as she paced forwards as if all was well.

Just as she thought she had escaped interrogation, the longest serving staff member abandoned her dusting and swivelled around to face the youngest Holmes.

"Have you heard anything from Mycroft?" Bless her, she was making a conscious effort not to point at the state she was in, but her eyes were gravitating towards the places where she had bit her lip so hard that it had bled. They then flickered to the stained t-shirt.

"No, sorry." Faylinn replied, immediately noticing that it was croaky from lack of use. She cleared her throat.

"Oh, that's funny, with him being away and all - you would have thought he'd have rang by now." she held up the delicate ornament in her hand, admiring how well it had 'cleaned up'.

"Away?"

"Yes dear, he left early Wednesday morning. You know what he's like with all his top secret things, all he said was that he wouldn't be home for a while, and to tell the cook that he wouldn't be needing any meals."

"Oh." Faylinn replied, trying to conceal her confusion.

She had been pretty much dead to the world for 3 days, but she had always (naively) made the assumption that Mycroft was around. It wasn't an unreasonable presumption to make - Mycroft had also been working at home more and more recently and if he wasn't here then who was providing her with room service every morning? He had left so many times in the past, each time always telling his sister about his departure. From the prolonged condescending 'I've got to go and see some very important people' to simply saying 'Korea again' as he walked out of the door with a suitcase.

"He didn't say where he was going?" she looked Mrs Scott in the eye for the first time.

"No he didn't, he never does, you know how it is, I'm always the last to know in this house." she complained, rolling her eyes as she placed a photo frame back in its place.

Faylinn turned to walk back to her room, aborting her earlier mission before chiming "Thank you, Mrs S."

The older woman replied: "No problem, dearie."

Climbing back over the now forgotten tea, Faylinn reached her dressing table. Again confronted with her tired reflection, she picked up her phone and switched it on for the first time in 72 hours. She walked over to the Victorian bay window and looked out at the familiar view as the screen came to life. Bored, she threw the phone up in the air, watched it flip and then caught it with ease in the palm of her hand.

No missed calls. No text messages. As typical as this was, she couldn't help but let her heart sink. Was she really that stupid to think that either one of her brothers would care enough to contact her?

It wasn't like her to be worried, but there was something suspicious about this. She punched her thumbs in to the touch screen a little more violently than she should have...

**What's going on? -F**

The reply came quickly, the buzz of the phone shocking Faylinn. It bought her mind away from the view of the treetops and in back in to the room.

**Ah, glad to see you have come out of hiding.  
I'm sending a car. Be ready in thirty minutes.  
MH**

Damn Holmes curiosity. The annoyance of not being provided with answers was soon replaced slight panic; she had half an hour to make herself look...well... a little less dead. She had the pride of a Holmes. She couldn't leave this house looking like she'd been dragged through a hedge backwards.

The work could wait, however, because as she crossed the echoing room and once again opened the door, she felt a sudden craving for cold tea.

_**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has offered their feedback and favourited/followed. It means a lot to me! I do still plan to write Faylinn in to the cannon so stay tuned for that :)**_


	11. Chapter 11

Patting her jean pocket to reassure her of the presence of her phone and the left over Christmas money that was found down the back of the dressing table, Faylinn stepped in to the steel grey Jaguar that had pulled up outside. She had known better than to protest - if Mycroft wanted her, he would get her there no matter how long it took. It was so much simpler to go of her own accord.

The driver made a point of wiping rain droplets from his jacket very slowly, obviously searching for some kind of thanks for standing in the sudden downpour, holding the door open. He received none.

Faylinn was too lost in the maze of her own mind. First, she dreamt up various scenarios that she would be greeted with when she arrived at her unknown destination. Her imagination ricocheted from one scene to another, some completely absurd , others entirely feasible. It became more difficult to focus in on one at a time because as soon as one played out, another part of her brain countered it, picking holes in it until it became too far from reality. Would there be more confrontation? Or would she be confronted with an apology?

With all the time in the world to lie and think in the past few days, Faylinn had a lot of time to ponder over her brother's reactions. Whether she could have done anything to stop it, whether Mycroft was exclusively on her side, whether or not Sherlock deserved forgiveness (the answer to this had depended on her mood- sometimes he was allowed some leeway to make it up to her, but when it got bad she had set about plotting the perfect 'accident').

Thoughts like these took over, engulfing the car and the rain and the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her attitude towards the whole situation was the only thing flipping upside down more than her insides.

"Do you...err mind if I put the radio on?" a deep, tired voice came from the front seat. The driver had apparently asked a few times, and was now looking in his rear view mirror to check that his passenger was still alive.

"No, go for it." she replied bluntly.

In truth, she did mind. She minded a lot, it was just that she didn't want the hassle. She cursed herself for snapping at him, but she put it down to factors like the shock of actually being acknowledged, the anticipation and just force of habit.

She had always been uncomfortable being chauffeured around, and avoided pretty much any communication whatsoever with the people at the wheel. The black uniforms and worrying amount of frown lines were always intimidating; she remembered the seemingly endless journeys her younger self endured in the backseat, always demanding that Sherlock sit close and hold her hand. Funny how things change.

The journey continued, most of it passing Faylinn by as she desperately tried to zone out the irritating radio DJ. She emptied her mind, picturing each memory individually being locked away. Curled up with her knees tucked up next to her chest and here feet up on the seat, she closed her eyes and visualised where she could be heading. That was one thing about being driven everywhere; you were never in control. All she could do was use her knowledge of London to keep track of the junctions and turns. She wasn't going to Mycroft's office - they were now travelling in the wrong direction.

As they turned and headed towards London Bridge, Faylinn sat up and sighed. She couldn't take it anymore; the same curiosity that bought her here had made her foot tap with impatience for the past ten minutes. It pained her to do it, but she had to ask.

"Erm, excuse me?"

"Yes, miss?" The driver responded, not taking his eyes off the traffic typical of London at rush hour.

"Well... I still don't know where I'm actually going, would you mind enlightening me?"

"I haven't been told exactly, all I have is a postcode: EC1A 7BE if that helps." he replied, quickly slipping back in to the silence that had become a tradition. He fiddled with dials on the dashboard, desperate to look busy as they sat in traffic.

Unfortunately, her time spent memorising a map of London had not involved postcodes. She strained to recall the exact area, but only knew it vaguely. There was something rattling in the back of her brain; that type of nagging sensation that tells you you know something, but not what that thing is.

The car lurched forwards and began its slow drive over London bridge, taking its passengers to the North side of the river. Unlike the morning traffic, Faylinn could not remain still. The questions and fears that had been caged before were slowly resurfacing, tunnelling their way to freedom and picking locks. A tourist would have been soaking up the views of The Shard and Tower Bridge but in the case of the youngest Holmes, all she saw was the palms of her hands as she covered her face. _What could be so secretive that Mycroft kept her waiting for this long? After everything, didn't she deserve to be in the know?_

They crawled along a few more yards before stopping once more.

"I'm really sorry." she sighed, enduring a few seconds of eye contact before clicking open the door and shimmying out of the small space she created. She slammed the heavy door behind her, blocking out the calls from her brother's employee.

Dodging a small hatchback in the next lane, Faylinn extended her stride to reach the pavement quickly, in fear of ending up on someone's car bonnet. _Now that would top off a great week_, an inner voice remarked. She smiled at her own sarcasm; Mycroft had always told her it was 'the lowest form of wit', but that didn't stop it from being funny.

She broke in to a run once she hit the sidewalk, thanking God that she had shied away from wearing the one pair of heels she owned. Her lungs, which seemed grateful to be full with proper London air, burned as she left the bridge and dashed down the street, with the 1920s architecture as her back drop. It was a good burn though, a nice burn.

Car horns sounded behind her; she didn't doubt that one belonged to the car she was in just a minute ago. Nonetheless, she kept running, one foot in front of the other. The rhythm was calming, lulling her in to a short-lived sense of calm and security, before the hustle and bustle of the capital hit her like a smack in the face. All of a sudden, she felt alone. Alone in a city of seven million people.

Content that she was far enough from the car, she ducked in to a side street, leaning against a wall to catch her breath. This was the price to pay for the freedom of her sprint.

After ensuring that her pulse had slowed, she addressed the question that had struck her the moment her legs had stopped moving. _Where was it she was actually going?_ It was all very well running away, but what from or where to was a different matter entirely. This was as far as the plan went.

"Urgghhhh." she moaned. All the intelligence she possessed clearly hadn't cancelled out naivety. Feeling anger bubble up inside, she turned and slapped the wall with the palm of her hand. Today really was a 'spur of the moment' kind of day.

"Are you ok?" a soft yet authoritative voice came from behind her. She turned on her heel, ready to snap and move on. But something about the face that greeted hers stopped her. The man wore a shirt and tie with a long jacket over the top (it reminded her of Sherlock's, except it was a lot less tailored) and a concerned look on his face.

"Errm... yeah... I was just err..." stumbled Faylinn.

He laughed off her attempt at a response, holding out his hand.

"DC Greg Lestrade" he announced. Despite the immediate warmth she felt towards the older man, she didn't take up his offer of a handshake.

"Faylinn Holmes" she smiled.

_**A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you so much for reading, favouriting, following and reviewing - it all means a lot to me. I would love to hear what you think :)**_


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: I do not own Sherlock or anything recognisable to the public. I hope you enjoy this chapter, it took me a while to write!**

He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side, willing his brain to find out why that name set off alarm bells.

"Nice to meet you Faylinn. Now, do you want to tell me why you chose to beat up this poor wall?" he smiled, reassuring her that the question was a feeble attempt at humour.

The teenager, who was now surveying the police officer, shifted awkwardly on her feet and pressed against wall behind her with her palms. It was keeping her there through the silence. Greg saw this and looked at her questioningly. Her only answer was to quickly move them, wrapping one around the other and cracking her knuckles. The sound it made was so satisfying; Mycroft had always frowned at her when she did it at home. Great. New found (but short lived) freedom, and what did she do with it? Crack her knuckles. Talk about living on the wild side.

His question hung in the air as Lestrade weighed up his options: the girl wasn't doing anything wrong, but there was something about her that made him uneasy about just leaving. He was in the middle of finishing up his case report and needed to get out of the office for a while. Plus, he missed actually _helping_ people rather than sitting in a mountain of paperwork.

Brrrnnngg. Brrrnnngg. Both of them scrambled around in their pocket to retrieve the ringing mobile. It was Faylinn that got there first, realising that she was the 'chosen one', immediately stabbing the touch screen to stop the noise.

Lestrade looked up from his own phone, replicating the same questioning look that was now well practised from hundreds of interrogations.

"Don't you want to answer that?"

Just as she opened her lips to respond, the phone screen lit up once more and made the same bid for attention. She groaned and flicked it off.

"Sounds like you're popular." he smiled, pocketing his handset having made the decision to head back to his car, which was parked across the street.

"I guess." she sighed, just as the caller adopted the philosophy of 'third time lucky'. As the ringing started, she rolled her eyes. Her brother really didn't give up did he? Having said that, there was no reason for him to throw in the towel - he always got what he wanted.

"For God's sake Mycroft!" she snapped as he cut him off again.

At this point, Greg's head snapped towards her. Realisation washed over his features.

"Mycroft? Wait, _Holmes..._ Mycroft Holmes?"

"You really are quite a detective aren't you?" sarcasm tinged her voice. "Yes. Mycroft Holmes is my brother, and he seemingly won't let me forget it." She gestured to her phone, earning a smile from the Detective Constable.

Greg had never been one to let stereotypes influence his work, but this name made him stand up a little straighter. He didn't like to admit it to himself, but this changed things; the name 'Holmes' carried a certain reputation with it, what with one of them being the most influential politician of the decade and the other being a common feature of rumours around NSY.

Desperately fighting the urge to throw her phone in front of a passing vehicle, Faylinn ignored messages informing her that Mycroft had resorted to leaving voicemails. All that resolve, the curiosity that bought her here had dwindled, and all she wanted to do was run in the opposite direction. Like a timid baby bird, the commotion and the noise had scared her away. The youngest Holmes thought through the possibilities: she could run to her left, back to the road and hail a cab (the feeling of the cash in her pocket made this a tempting plan) and then there was the tube station a few minutes away, but seeing as the wait for a train would give time for Mycroft's people to spot her on his perfectly placed CCTV, that was out. Taxi it was.

Lestrade was too busy wiping coffee from his tie to notice as she geared herself up to leave. Why was this, leaving a man she'd met just moments ago, so much harder than stepping in to the traffic and playing 'chicken' on the bridge?

Pushing away from the wall, as if in a swimming race and needing a head start, she paced across the pavement and then leaped off the curb, falling in to an evenly spaced run across the road. '_Come on, you have to commit the idea... even if it was a ridiculous one.'_ She had ran in to someone who cared. Fate had intervened. And she ran away. Again. The only word that came to mind was idiotic.

Confused, it took a few seconds for the older man take off after her. Various voices in his brain conflicted each other - she was running away for a reason, so she shouldn't be followed, but then again, she clearly needed help. Greg wasn't going to be the one filing a missing persons report on a girl he'd just had a chat with in the middle of the street.

With years of running after criminals behind him, and with the unique advantage of shouting 'POLICE' to get pedestrians cleared out of the way, he soon reached her. His fingers squeezed around her shoulder, pulling her back in an effort to rein her in.

"Whoa. Where are you going?" he steadied his voice, not allowing the heavy breathing to override the care he was trying to convey. This effort was not lost on her, and as she skidded to a hault, she turned to look him in the eyes.

"I... I just..." she panted slightly, not because the exercise had taken its toll, but because she engineered her breathing to give her time to think, "I don't know, I just need to get out of London."

The way his face fell immediately told her that this was not what he wanted to hear. For a moment, she simply wanted to scream that this was not his problem, that she didn't need this. She wanted to ask why he cared where she went. It was then that the phone rang.

Faylinn didn't even need to look at the caller ID to know who would be on the other side of it. This time, there was no room to make jokes about her brother. There was just anger. Being a Holmes was actually suffocating her. All she asked for was some time to get herself straight. It was impossible face Mycroft's scolding when her mind couldn't even cope with listening to a radio in the back of a car .She threw the device to the floor with no remorse as it bounced on the concrete.

"Miss Holmes, Faylinn, if I can call you that. Whatever is waiting on the other side of that phone must be worth listening to. I can't tell you what to do, but as a police officer, I can't let a teenager run away when her family is clearly concerned about her." Greg ran his hand through his dark hair, hoping the professional approach would work.

Faylinn considered this. The details were incorrect, considering that the concern he had mentioned was more than likely just Mycroft ready to rip her to shreds. On the whole, however, he had a point.

Lestrade, who stood watching her contemplate his words, still didn't remove his hand from her shoulder. Despite the fact he still didn't trust her not to leave again, he had to let her go in order to reach for his vibrating phone.

The text on the screen was rather different to the one he had expected from the boss, demanding more coffee:

**'I believe that you have collared my sister. Please insist that she answers my calls. Thank you -Mycroft Holmes. **

"What... How did...For God's sake!" he thrust his phone in to her hand. When Faylinn scanned the message, she couldn't help but smirk - she'd forgotten that normal people didn't know the extent of Mycroft's capabilities.

"Now do you see why I'm going to all this trouble?"

"Ok, so how about we compromise? How about _I _speak to him?" Lestrade bargained. This really wasn't how he'd imagined his lunch break going, but he had to admit, he was looking forward to the sense of accomplishment when all this was resolved. The city continued to move forwards around them, and for once he wasn't trying to keep up with it from behind a cluttered desk.

"Really?" Trying to contain her relief was futile, as she sounded extremely like an eager puppy. At least this way Mycroft would be partially satisfied, and she wouldn't have to receive a lecture about the dangers of running from a moving vehicle.

"If it means you it'll stop you from running in to the sunset never to return then yes." he replied, trying to hurry proceedings along.

"The plan was nowhere near as romantic as you make it out to be." she rolled her eyes, but still spared no time in grabbing Greg's phone (she had determined hers to be deceased) and dialling the number she couldn't help but know off by heart. Before any further persuasion, it was placed back in to the grasp of the police officer.

RING.

RING.

"Mycroft Holmes speaking..."

**A/N: I'm sorry that it hasn't really gone anywhere, but I really wanted Lestrade to meet her! I am nearly ready to start writing Faylinn in to the canon, so this fic won't be too much longer. Thank you so much for reading - reviews, favourites and follows make my day :)**


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft discarded the paperwork on to the plastic chair next to him, before flicking his wrist, allowing him to see the wide watch face of his Rolex. _30 minutes. _ Where the hell was she? Sighing and falling back in to the remarkably uncomfortable seat, he made a mental note to edit a certain police officers file.

The stark white corridor allowed the beeps stemming from behind him to echo and multiply. Mycroft felt a hunger for the silent haven of the Diogenes (or was it the chocolate nut brownies from the tea trolley?)

Footsteps from the adjoining hall told Mycroft that he and his thoughts were no longer alone; he lent forwards, anticipating having to address the passerby. His shoulders visibly loosened when only one gait could be distinguished. It proved that he was not being approached by his sister but instead by a man, around six feet tall and wearing those ridiculous plastic clogs that would be mortifying if worn outside of these walls.

He picked up two files from beside him along with his phone and nonchalantly slipped in to a counterfeit conversation with the blank screened handset.

"Yes, yes. I am well aware of his faults." he complained, completing the facade with a sigh.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded slowly. The man, wearing blue scrubs and carrying a clipboard, was about to greet the politician when he noticed that he was otherwise engaged. After slowing and smiling at him, he scuttled onwards, almost walking in to the windowed double doors about 10 metres away from Mycroft.

"If I must, then yes, but neither will admit it in my pres-" He stopped mid sentence as soon as the door swung shut, seeing no reason to continue. He dropped his hand to his side once more, pleased but not at all surprised that his deceit had been successful. In the past 24 hours, the medical profession had done enough to drive even Mycroft, who considered himself to be level headed, up the wall.

* * *

The unlikely partnership flocked across the road, following a crowd of tourists, being lead by a raised umbrella. Greg, who had found his way through the automatic doors of another international coffee chain, sipped in between moans about his inevitable 'bollocking'.

"It's not too late you know, I could always go and get the car." he said, pulling his coat tighter around himself.

Without turning to look up at him, she deadpanned, "No, no I hate being driven around."

"It's a tough life then, eh? Being rich and all..." Lestrade replied with a sarcastic smile slipping on to his face. He took the chance to look down at the teenager beside him hoping that his comment hadn't been taken the wrong way - his smirk was not mirrored, but instead Faylinn seemed to stare more intently at her own shoes, as if willing the pavement to open up beneath her.

Indeed, wishing that the ground would swallow her whole was an overwhelming feature of Faylinn's thoughts as they jogged forwards a few strides to satisfy the bus driver that had impatiently sounded his horn. It was joined, however, by an alacrity to recall the alarm buzzing at the back of her brain. EC1A 7BE. Somewhere in Central/East London then, and (hopefully) within reasonable walking distance. But where? Where had been deemed important enough by Mycroft? Lestrade knew, and was frankly doing a remarkable job of not letting on after 5 minutes straight of begging. After all of this effort, it was difficult to fathom a location that would live up to the speculation and such a level of secrecy.

They rounded the corner, leaving behind the trail of 'I heart LDN' t-shirts and Union Jack souvenirs that somehow managed to think up a valid reason for stopping to take a picture of every building they passed. Lestrade picked up his pace, which Faylinn's long legs could easily match. It was then that an Ambulance speeded past, sirens screeching.

Familiarity itched at her skin with road maps crossed and uncrossed in front of her. As the flashing lights raced out of her eye line, the word replaced it: Bartholomew. Her gait faltered as the realisation hit her like an elbow to the ribs - a jab she knew only too well. Noticing his double had fell behind, Greg turned back to find Faylinn's eyes had been drilling in to the back of his skull.

"What? What's wrong?" He was now questioning his decision making skills - perhaps getting involved in a family argument wasn't the best way to spend the remaining ten minutes of his lunch break.

"St Barts." she said, for her own sake rather than the detectives, "St Barts. That's where we're going."

* * *

The youngest Holmes stormed ahead, but made no effort to completely shake off the detective. She could have easily ran, whether it be away from the situation or to face it head on, but an unspoken rule seemed to have been established between the two - Lestrade was now invested, whether he liked it or not.

Even after reaching the glass doors of the hospital, Faylinn's pace did not relent. In her eyes, less time spent walking to the destination meant less time to be alone with her thoughts. After spending days locked up in a self inflicted prison sentence, each second replaying dialogue and questioning herself was costly.

A woman behind a reception desk greeted her with a smile that only seemed to make the internal noise louder. Only Greg had the sense to ask for directions, something he assumed a Holmes would be too proud to do.

"Oi!" he panted, jogging to catch up with the girl who had rooted deeper in to the maze of white walls and blue plastic chairs. "This way - it's the fourth floor". He pointed his left, leading them through the junction of corridors to the lifts. At this point, the police officer as glad to be the one with the information - being out smarted by a 15 year old was slightly embarrassing, even if no one was here to witness it.

He was surprised to not be confronted with a request to climb the stairs; in his mind, this was an admission that the walk was unnecessary and long winded. People crammed themselves in to the lift, with very little regard for personal space. This intimacy left Faylinn to endure a feeling of being deprived of air, closing her eyes tight and clenching her fist. Her chest moved faster and faster until the passengers dissipated, a rush for freedom like when a fizzy drink is shaken then opened. She gulped as she exited the metal box - she didn't have to be a Holmes to predict what she would find within these walls. Even the typical smell of detergent and cleaning products bought with it a foreboding feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She walked side by side with Greg, who seemed to have a hard time deciding which turn to take. The blue double doors swung shut behind her as she stopped dead, obstructing the path. Faylinn needed no direction once her crystal blue eyes homed in on the tell tale clue.

Like a discarded invitation, a familiar black umbrella was leant against the door frame...

**A/N: Apologies for the delay, life is REALLY getting in the way at the moment. ** **Reviews, follows and favourites make my day! Thank you for your patience!**


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